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Story:Twilight Crystal 2/Prologue
What does a rose promise? Purity? Romance? Fragility? From what arc, from what feature is such a vow derived? Is it the wreath of thorns, that perennial sacrament of ardor and agony? Is it the corona of petals, unfolding in vivid and vulnerable display? Does each lineage whisper in a unique and efflorescent voice, or does one definition transcend all? Perhaps each gives to the rose the countenance of that which they love, and receives from it a coloration according to their inclinations and devotions. Perhaps all said is merely idle and superstitious speculation. One would not offer such an opinion, however, on this shining evening. The sun’s dying rays weave gently down the rolling, rusty hills of eastern Ashland, seeming to shudder in anticipation of the night’s advent. The Canidine of this land have a particular tradition when sending on their dead, a marriage of burial and cremation quite unlike those of the other races. A pyre reaches to the sky upon one hilltop, adorned with rosebuds still green and wet as if weeping. Appropriate, that such a garland grace the resting place of that species, who often pass on before their fifth decade is over. Two such Canidine - siblings, not yet thirty - finish dispersing the roses, a mixture of relief and sorrow written upon their canine features. The brother seems almost overcome with emotion, saved only by the reassuring hand of his sister on his shoulder. She leads him down the hill, where the small assembly of guests awaits. As they leave, a final stream of sunlight weaves through the pyre’s maze of branches and boughs, pitying the flowers that will never bloom. Beneath it all lies a simple wooden box, and the man who tonight will fly as the wind. But for now, he lies buried yet exposed, as the rosebuds whisper to him their fears, their dreams, their sins. One speaks of ravenous hunger for the world’s offerings, an oblation never to be satisfied. One speaks of a more sensual desire, to be felt, to be feared, an all-consuming consummation. One speaks of a self-comforting inertia, a folding into the self, a vanishing into obscurity. One speaks of malice and grudge, the seizing of loss that is perpetually palpable, unobtainable. One speaks of avarice that walks the thin rope between deception and reality, many-faced, ever fated. One speaks of rage unquenchable, immolating from the inside, catalyst upon catalyst. One speaks of vanity, grasping eras of the ego, irradiating itself in the mirrorlight of glory. Maximillian Renard cannot hear them, nor can he sense their roots diving ever deeper into the heart of humanity. For a single rose shall soon speak for all. ---- “...Whose love and loyalty provided for us today.” The elderly Canidine woman, who likely would soon require such a funeral, recited the final line and so lit the candle. Tall, tapering, a solitary sentinel in the chill of the night, its light just barely illuminated the pyre upon which it would soon create a sun. “The Honored is John Martin.” Silently, the crone stepped away, handling the candle to a grizzled Hume man, dirty blond and graying hair waxing golden in the muted light. He cleared his throat gruffly, waiting respectfully for her to rejoin the rest of the gathered, huddled in a detached arc around him. “First off, I want to thank Max’s family - Nowe, Eris - for allowing me to speak tonight. I just have a few words.” All eyes focused intently on him. It was not often a Hume was called to be the Honored. Holding no notes, with his free hand buried into the pockets of a sharp brown coat, John began to speak. “For those who don’t know me - and trust me, you’re better off that way - I was Max’s old military buddy back in the day. We had our fair share of adventures together, but in the end, I’m most proud about helping him get home to his family after the war.” He nodded to the Canidine family, tall and slender ghosts swaying gently in the wind. They steadied slightly at his words, offering tight smiles of appreciation. A man in the front row - Nowe - in crisp military uniform and now openly sobbing, leaned against his sister for support. John turned from them to the pyre for a second, and in that fleeting moment he eclipsed it from their eyes, shrouding the candleflame so all they could see was a faint halo around his head. Then he turned back around, restoring to them that single, sacred light, and his expression was pained. “Max told me something over a campfire, once. He knew that the mercenary road he was walking would ruin him, that he wanted to leave it all behind, and go and take everyone he loved with him. I remember being amazed, that this deserter, this rogue, this man who was branded a traitor, could be so soft. But looking back, the fact that he was able to keep that conviction through all the horror of war we endured… that’s real courage. Max didn’t seem like the type of person to give anyone the benefit of a soft heart. But it was there, all along. And I’m thankful every day that in the last years of his life, Max could share that heart with his loved ones and with people he met all over the world.” Once more he paused, intent upon the non-Canidines in the audience. The blacksmith and raider meet his gaze with steel in their eyes; they, too, still endeavor to find hope in the long shadow of war. Beside them, the Drakenaer couple are still fixated on the fated pyre - he in the pride of a comrade, she in the reverence of nostalgia. John Martin nods, and rejoins his speech. “The war has been over for almost twenty years. The dust has settled. Where have all the heroes gone? I don’t mean the ones written about in the history books, elevated to positions of power. I mean the ones who fought for a cause they believed in, who forged a path between two sides that hated each other bitterly. Those who, when it mattered the most, reached for the mantle of peace, grasped it not for themselves, but for the whole world - and then quietly went back to their own lives. In short, they weren’t heroes. Max didn’t believe in heroes, and he had good cause: heroes are crowned, heroes are crowed about, heroes are forgotten.” “So where have all the heroes gone? That’s the wrong question. I believe with all my heart Max would agree with me if I said he wasn’t a hero. And that’s exactly why I will never forget him.” John threw the candle into the pyre before it could betray the tears running down his face. For the second time, it seemed like all the light in the world was hidden from view, eclipsed by wood and roses. That silent instant seemed to last forever, And then, slowly, passionately, the pyre blossomed into tongues of fire. Maximillian Renard took his last flight, a grey wind prowling beyond the sky, soaring above the bowed heads of those that loved him. He drifts to the distant coastlines, over the still ivy and the old maid by the sea. He drifts among the black birds of strife, across the nascent trails of trade, away from fields already jaded by ash. And he returns, as all do, to the crystal land - that nexus of star and stone, of life and death, where it all began - and where it begins, again.